


Independence Day

by Eienvine



Category: Welcome to Sanditon
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:45:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You had never planned on making the Fourth a date, not really, and you've never been a couple, not really, so he has every right to make plans with someone else. And if you tell yourself this enough, maybe it will eventually make you feel better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Independence Day

**Author's Note:**

> Writing about WTS is complicated, because information about their world comes from so many different sources—the videos, multiple Twitter accounts, websites—that it's difficult to keep up on all of them. If I've missed some very major and contradictory piece of information, I apologize.

. . . . . .  
  
You wake up at five in the familiar gray light of pre-dawn. No early-morning prep today—you finished it all last night—but habit is too strong to fight, and anyway it's not a bad thing to get an early start on the day. The Fourth of July is one of your biggest days of the year, one that sees you selling cones to festival-goers and fireworks-watchers all day long on the beach.  
  
Showered and dressed, you head down to the store to check the ice cream has set properly, that you're fully stocked with cones and napkins and candy. You're fussing unnecessarily, you know; the setup is perfect, as it always is. This business comes naturally to you; you couldn't mess up an ice cream cart if you tried. But you've got time to kill, more than you do on a day when you have prep work to do in the morning, so you triple-check the cart, then move into the familiar routine of looking over your kitchen—checking that counters are sparkling, the floor is swept bare, the freezer temperatures are within acceptable limits. It's only when you reach your office that your assured movements falter, because there's a DVD sitting on your desk: _Serenity_ , checked out from the library a few days ago to ensure there was something to watch while the cart was stocked with ice cream last night. But things changed, and when Gigi came by to help you, the two of you watched _Sabrina_ instead. You don't know if you'll get around to watching _Serenity_ now. It hadn't really been your idea to begin with.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
There's a routine to Independence Day, a series of events that everyone in town attends: the parade down Main Street, the festival in the park at the edge of the beach, the cook-off and then the fireworks on the sand. It's tradition, but if you were being honest you'd admit you're not quite feeling it this year.  
  
For the parade you join forces with Gigi and, as usual, Robyn. You and Robyn have watched the parade together from the steps of the library every year since you graduated high school; before that you marched it together in the high school band's color guard. That's tradition too, and you have a great time as always, but you can't help reflecting on the fact that you'd hoped to add someone to your little group this year—and you don't mean Gigi.  
  
But you are glad to have Gigi, whose rapture over her first small-town parade is entirely endearing, and who has promised to help you staff your cart. "After all," Gigi points out reasonably, "what else do I have to do today?" The girl has already explained that her brother, her only family, has never been much of one for the Fourth, and is spending the day with his girlfriend in her hometown. Gigi is thrilled for the pair but not sure she wants to drive all the way there just to be a third wheel, so she's perfectly happy to stay in Sanditon and help with the cart. And, though neither of you says it, to distract and support you.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
It's a hot year, hotter than previous years, and to the sun-drenched attendees of the Fourth of July festival, ice cream seems like the perfect treat. Or at least that's how it seems to you, because you've never had a better year for ice cream sales—and it's only two in the afternoon. You're glad you prepared extra and are just thinking about asking Gigi to staff the cart alone for a few minutes while you run back to the store to get the extra buckets you whipped up when suddenly you know all your attempts at distracting yourself—all attempts at convincing yourself you're not bothered—have been exercises in futility.  
  
Because the second he steps into the festival, you see him, catch sight of that familiar vest even a block away across the sand and the grass with throngs of revelers in between you. Maybe deep down you've been watching for it all day.  
  
He's at the festival with his aunt—his date with Griff isn't until the evening, as you know from Tom and from Domino and from every single well-meant customer who's come through your doors in the last week—and he doesn't look happy; he never does when he's with the old lady. For a long useless moment you think that he would have looked happy if he was there at your cart, and then you untie your apron.  
  
"I need to run back to the store to get refills for these three flavors," you tell Gigi. "Can you handle things here for a minute?"  
  
Gigi nods happily and you take off at a brisk walk, keen to leave before Gigi spots Ed; you don't want your friend to think he's the reason you're leaving right now. Not even if it's true.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
You had never planned on making the Fourth a date. That's what you remind yourself all afternoon, what you chant like a mantra when he shows up that evening with Griff on his arm in a blue dress. You'd never set anything in stone, so he hasn't broken any promises to you.  
  
In fact that summarizes your entire . . . relationship, or whatever this thing is that you're doing. You never have dates, not really. He shows up for craft night and distracts your from your hostessing duties by feigning ignorance of your favorite movies. You linger longer than necessary at his table when he comes into your store for a scoop of the blueberry ice cream you developed just for him. You both pretend that it's pure chance that you keep attending the cinema at the same time. And when the Fourth was approaching and he'd asked if you needed any help staffing your cart, he'd played it off like he was just being a conscientious employee of the mayor's office, doing his civic duty by helping with the festival. And you'd answered equally noncommittally, something about Well I suppose if you're not doing anything else and you want to stop by and lend a hand . . .  
  
So it was never a date, not really, and you've never been a couple, not really. He has every right to make plans with someone else, even if he'd only made those plans because his boss pressured him into them. You repeat this over and over all day, only ever managing to half-believe it.  
  
(It should go without saying that this string of thoughts is hardly a comfort when you have to watch him parade around with another girl on his arm—a girl whose expression of growing dissatisfaction proves more and more every moment that she does not appreciate or enjoy the opportunity to spend time with the oddest, sweetest boy in town.)  
  
. . . . . .  
  
You're handing that new spin gym owner—Ed's date's brother, although you're forcing yourself not to think about that—an ice cream cone when you look up and over his shoulder you see a little knot of people standing in the park across the street from the beach: Ed and Griff with Susan and Diana Parker. Ed is speaking, and at something he says, his three companions simultaneously turn and look directly at you. All three look distinctly unimpressed, but that's not what sticks with you; your mind is entirely taken up with wondering what he said.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
You hate that you have been so hyper-aware of him all day. You hate that you know without looking up that his date is in the restroom and he is standing by the information booth, his gaze darting constantly to and from the ice cream cart. You hate the thought that he might come over and talk to you. You hate the thought that he might not.  
  
You hate that Tom feels entitled to meddle in Ed's life; you hate that Ed allows it. You hate that this boy has become so adept at cutting up your peace.  
  
In the end, after a long internal struggle, you decide that you wish he'd come over and talk to you.  
  
In the end, he does not.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
You mean wholeheartedly what you said to Gigi over the phone the other day, but at the time didn't have the words to fully articulate the idea. But you've been thinking about it since then, and you know now what you'd say if she asked again. You'd say that Ed, like many of us, is a different person depending on who he's with. You'd say that when he's with the mayor, he becomes Obedient Ed, carrying out his boss's every order even when he personally thinks they're wrong. You'd say that when he's with his aunt, he becomes Submissive Ed, meekly agreeing with everything she does and says in order to avoid contention, even though he has no problem disagreeing with her when she's not in the room. (You wouldn't say, out of respect for his privacy, that you sometimes wonder what his childhood was like because from things he's said and not said, from the interactions you've seen him have with his family, you get the distinct impression that his home life has often been a tense one.)  
  
And then you'd say that there's a third Ed, one who's kind and helpful and funny and passionate and smart, one who acts on his convictions, one who makes you laugh. This is the Ed you met that night the two of you talked for hours about triffids, the Ed you never even suspected of existing but who you've seen with increasing frequency around your shop the past few weeks. This is the Ed who greets you at the movies each week with that adorable half-smile, an empty seat next to his, and a box of popcorn with light butter and no salt because he knows that's how you like it. This is the Ed (and you would definitely not tell Gigi this) that you think you could see yourself with for a long time to come.  
  
But to tell him he should be like that all the time would be counterproductive, because if he obeyed that would just make him Obedient Ed again. Your Ed is someone who knows who he is and chooses to act accordingly, and that's really a place he has to get to on his own. So your not telling him to stop letting the mayor set him up on awkward dates with other girls might look like a step backwards for your relationship, but really you did it for the two of you. You did it because if this is going to happen—and you want for this to happen—he has to decide for himself that this is something he's willing to fight for.  
  
And as you watch out of the corner of his eye as he buys Griff a smoothie, all you can do is hope that this is something he's willing to fight for.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
Half a day in the same park and you've managed to avoid each other all day—not even eye contact. Not even when he stood just a few feet from you for the fireworks, and you know that wasn't on accident and you can't decide if that's endearing or irritating.  
  
But now he wants to break that streak, apparently, because when the last of the fireworks has faded from the black sky and the crowds are beginning to disperse in the flat yellow dimness from the streetlamps, you look up from the cones you're packing up and for the first time all day your eyes meet his. He's striding determinedly toward you, Griff nowhere in sight—bathroom again? Or was the date so bad that she told him she'd find her own way home?—and you can't help the fluttery feeling that grows in your stomach. He's confusing and confused, far too easily pushed around, but the fact is that you've missed him, even though it's only been four days since you spoke in person. The fact is that seeing him walk toward you is making it harder and harder to hide the smile that wants to blossom across your face.  
  
And then, like a scene from a movie, Tom Parker steps directly into Ed's path, forcing him to stop in his tracks.  
  
"Edward!" says the mayor cheerfully, and throws one arm around his employee's shoulders, chatting in a voice too low for you to hear. And this is just too ridiculous. What is so wrong with you? Why does Tom dislike you so much that he's doing everything in his power to keep Ed away from you? And why does he think he has the right to dictate his employee's love life?  
  
 _Come on, Ed,_ you think at him. _This is your moment. Stand up to him._  
  
But really, who, knowing Ed, knowing Tom, would be surprised to learn that Ed does not stand up to his boss? You aren't, which you think is maybe the saddest part of this whole thing.  
  
Ed shoots you an apologetic glance over Tom's shoulder as the mayor leads him away, and that's it. That's all the acknowledgment that you're going to get right now. And the two of you aren't dating, not exactly, and you never have been, but that doesn't make it hurt any less.  
  
. . . . . .  
  
The phone rings as you're brushing your teeth and you lean into the kitchen to see who's on the caller ID. Ed Denham, and for so many reasons you don't answer.  
  
But right before you go to sleep something in you relents, and you sit cross-legged on your bed and pull up the message he left.  
  
 _Hey Clara,_ he says, and for the first time in a long time that lopsided grin doesn't make you smile in return. _I was hoping I'd catch you before you went to bed. Just wanted to see . . . how your ice cream selling went. You know, did you . . . fill all of Sanditon with joy and dessert-y goodness._ He pauses. _I know it's late, and you have to be up early tomorrow, but I'll be up until at least midnight, so if you get this before then, and you've got some time, give me a call._ He smiles again. _Ed out._  
  
The message ends and you glance at the clock at the top of your screen: 11:15. You could talk to him. You've got time, and there are a lot of things that need to be said.  
  
The trouble is, you don't know what they are.  
  
So in the end, you put the phone down on your nightstand, and you turn off your lamp, and you curl up under the covers, and you close your eyes and shut out the world. Because it's been a long day, and you've had enough of doing. You've had enough of thinking. You've had enough.  
  
. . . . . .  


**Author's Note:**

> If I manage to get it out before some video comes along and completely canonballs what I've written so far, the second chapter will cover Ed's thoughts.


End file.
